It's My Choice

I

A SAD TIME

The alarm rang loudly, too loudly, I thought, as I pulled my tired body from the bed and shuffled to take a shower and brush my teeth. Bud, my husband, got up too and went downstairs. While brushing my teeth, I remembered it was Wednesday, horseracing day. Damn!

My gut feeling told me he was taking a half-day off from work to be there in the afternoon. It was the end of the month, January 31

—his payday. I felt my anger surfacing as I saw him losing his whole paycheck again, a frequent happening. That meant bills would be paid late again, including the mortgage. With children, a place to live was my priority.

Damn the tracks, damn the sickness of gambling and damn those who fed off other people’s weaknesses! I wished we had never come to Arizona and lived far from the tracks and Las Vegas, another of his haunts. The day was only beginning and already I felt down, locked into a life with no hope for happiness. With a heavy heart, I dressed and went downstairs. Little did I know then that I was causing my unhappiness.

Bud was sitting at the breakfast counter, smoking his usual non-filtered Camel and drinking last night’s warmed-over coffee, another sore point with me. I never could persuade him to switch to a milder brand although he knew the risk for lung cancer if he continued. I also felt that coffee left overnight in a metal pot was harmful to the body, and with caffeine stimulating acid production in the stomach, no telling what other harmful reaction could take place.

This was another example of ignorance for the truth that I could not choose for another.

With purse in hand, I walked past him without giving him a good-bye kiss. I opened the back sliding door, stepped onto the patio, turned to face him and said, And don’t forget to pay the bills today! Everything about me was angry—stance, face and voice. I expected a rebuttal but all he did was look at me as though too tired to say anything, an unusual silence. I didn’t pursue it because I was tired too and knew arguing resolved nothing.

I closed the sliding door hard, and as it closed with a thud, turned and walked to the car. Even as I started the car, I thought it strange he didn’t answer, and while driving to work, I recalled how tired he looked with a dark, grayish coloring—a coloring I hadn’t seen before. I brushed that picture aside when I arrived at work.

Work was as a clinical laboratory scientist (medical technologist), at a specialized laboratory in a large Phoenix hospital. I called messenger service to bring the scheduled patients down for their tests, assisted the doctor, monitored patients and did chemical analyses on patients’ samples. A part-time technologist assisted, making patient load manageable and allowing quiet time in the afternoon to complete chemical analyses. While completing my work, I recalled how Bud looked in the morning. I felt funny inside, a strange gut feeling that something was wrong with him. My mind lingered on that picture for a few moments then said, Nah, forget it, he’s okay.

That afternoon, our youngest daughter, Sandy, had a dental appointment at the opposite end of the city. She was only six, but seemed mature for her age. Sometimes she would make statements unusual for her age that we’d listen, look at each other, and wonder how she knew that, or where did she get that thought? She also kept things honest. When describing an event or situation, we couldn’t deviate or embellish it because she’d say, Uh, uh, that’s not what you said or how it happened and reiterate verbatim or describe the scene more fully. She had a good memory, wasn’t talkative but was observant and could, if she chose, to articulate her thoughts pretty well. Of the children, I saw her as the most serious and often wondered why she was so different from her siblings. I had been well conditioned by the older children who were high-energy mischievous creators and who often were far ahead of me. I wasn’t accustomed to a serious straightforward child, but welcomed the change.

As I was paying for her dental service, the phone rang. The receptionist answered and said, Yes, she’s here then handed the phone to me, saying it’s the hospital. My heart sank with questions racing through my mind as I took the phone—who’s sick, who’s hurt, what happened? I took the phone, said hello and held my breath as I listened to the voice identify the hospital and herself as the emergency room nurse. When she said, Bud’s here in the emergency room, I thought my son had been in an accident with his motorcycle, but when she finished her sentence with chest pain, I knew it was my husband. She asked how soon I could get there. I replied, In fifteen or twenty minutes but I wasn’t really sure if I’d make it in that time. I knew there would be after work traffic, and with Phoenix being a spread out city, traveling could be slow.

I slowly handed the phone back to the receptionist trying to feel the words, chest pain, not daring to think the worst. I stood frozen for a moment then turned to my daughter, telling her we had to go to the hospital to see Dad.

I don’t remember starting the car, but I do remember driving to the hospital with questions running through my mind—is he going to die, how bad is it, why didn’t he have symptoms before, was the pain under his left shoulder blade two days ago a sign? I told him to go to the doctor, but he wanted to wait until his doctor’s appointment tomorrow.

He had hurt his back sneezing two weeks ago, but he seemed to be mending and said the prescribed daily heat and ultrasound treatments were helping.

As I drove to the hospital, I remembered our youngest was with me. She was so quiet I had forgotten about her. I glanced at her sitting on the passenger side so straight and proper. I had expected to see a fearful child wondering what was going on, but instead, saw a child’s face void of emotion, no fear or tears. I was startled to see such a stoic composure and was puzzled, but then she was never one to cry easily. I wondered what she was feeling or thinking, but didn’t ask, thinking She’s only six, too young to know or really understand what’s happening. Little did I know that children intuitively know what happens. They do have thoughts and feelings but may not know how to express them.

Traffic was moderate and flowing well and my watch said we’d reach the hospital within 20 minutes. When we arrived, I was surprised to see our youngest son, Evan, already there. I asked him how he knew Dad was there then remembered that the doctor he worked for after school was our family physician and friend. His partner was the physician on call that day, and since their office was near the hospital, our son, who can move like lightening when he wants to, was there in no time. He had such a frightened look I wanted to hug him but knew he disliked being treated like a little boy. He asked why I took so long in coming. I studied his face but didn’t answer. His mind was on Dad and there was no use telling him that in an emergent situation a short time seemed forever.

We walked into the emergency area, and while he and his sister waited, I went into the office to speak with the nurse. She took me to Bud. His face was pale, devoid of blood, with large beads of perspiration though the room was cool. It was sad to see him without his usual vitality and energy, shoulders drooped, lines on his face deeper than before, so tired and burdened as though carrying the whole world.

I leaned toward him and softly asked, Hi Dad. Are you having pain? He looked at me with eyes half closed and slowly shook his head. I watched his labored breathing and wondered if the oxygen was really helping. I felt so helpless, that same feeling I have for very ill patients who are close to death.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes as if remembering something and slowly recounted what had happened. He was at the horse track and had ordered his usual beer at the bar. While waiting for the first race to begin, he broke out in a cold sweat followed by difficulty in breathing and chest pain traveling down his left arm. He knew it was his heart and asked the bartender to call the ambulance. The bartender first took it as a joke, but when he saw Bud’s face, he quickly made the call. Hmm—I wasn’t called until approximately four-thirty and the call was made before the race began, around one-fifteen. Why the delay? My god, he could’ve been dead before the ambulance arrived! At that time, ambulance service was a private enterprise and slow response was a frequent complaint. I shuddered, hoping that our family would never need that service again in this city.

Shortly after we had arrived at the hospital, he was transferred to the coronary care unit. When I was allowed to visit him for a few minutes, I was surprised to find the cardiac monitor facing him, but knowing him, he probably had requested it. As a Navy trained medical laboratory technician, he recognized an abnormal electrocardiogram so knew what was happening. It didn’t look good, but I still had hope. I asked if he wanted to see the children and he said, Yes, it may be my last time, an unexpected honesty bringing tears to my eyes. He knew, and my gut feeling told me he was probably right, but I was determined not to cross that bridge until I reached it. There’s a time for everything in life and no matter how much we hurry or tarry, when it’s time, it will be.

I returned to the waiting room where the children were sitting patiently and quietly, and told them that Dad had asked to see them. It was the first time I had seen them sitting quietly each with his or her thoughts. I recalled the numerous times I had to scold or give them the stink eye (Hawai’i’s local term for a dirty look which said, behave or you’re gonna get it!), but it wasn’t needed this time. It was then I saw that children do know when to be on their best behavior. And they decide that on their own. They make choices too, which is their free will in action. So, what’s the parents’ role—as guides, until children can stand on their own two feet. As parents, we think we make all their choices, but we don’t. They choose for themselves. Think about it.

I walked with them to the room, but stayed only a moment because I felt it was their private time with Dad. I remembered the many times before, wishing that they had more special times with him, but time was spent on doing things for selves, everyone with different priorities, no two coinciding at the same time. Family-ness and togetherness were being lost. We were disconnecting ourselves from each other, a process that exists in societies today.

I felt sad that we were so caught up in our own lives we couldn’t see how we had drifted apart. Was it too late? I didn’t think so but I wondered why it was during critical moments of impending loss we see clearer as to what’s important and what’s not. It seems that only then we see the shortness of our Earth time, wishing we could turn time back, we resolve to affect change. It points to not only what I see as our mixed up priorities, but also to the differing values we choose for ourselves. Why do we do what we do? What drives us? Why can’t I find answers? Hush, the children are coming.

When they returned to the waiting room, I didn’t ask them what was said and no one offered to tell me. That was okay because it was their special time with their Dad.

As I waited for the nurse to let me know when I could see him again, the priest from the church nearby arrived to give him last rites, a label no longer used. I waited for a seemingly long time worried that something had happened and no one had time to tell us. I looked for signs of staff hurrying about but there were none. I was relieved when the priest reappeared. He stopped and spoke with us briefly before leaving.

As I walked to Bud’s room, the nurse asked that I wait a few moments to let him rest. The wait seemed endless, but when I was allowed to see him again, his face was one I had never seen before—a picture of profound peace. The tense lines on his face had relaxed, giving way to a serene smile that told me nothing mattered anymore, that he was ready to leave this world. He had made final peace with himself and God. When he saw me, he smiled and said, Mummy, I have no more sins. I smiled and said, That’s good Dad, as my eyes filled with tears of happiness at his newfound peace and sadness at his probable short-lived peace.

So many of us seek to have peace within, but where do we find it or how do we achieve such a desirable state? Why does it seem to elude so many of us? It just doesn’t seem fair that he should find peace at this point in life. Why couldn’t he have had it sooner to enjoy longer? Who chooses what we should have and when? We do.

My thoughts went back to the priest, wondering why he was with Bud so long. It dawned on me why—confession. I smiled inwardly as I recalled the many times I coaxed him to attend mass or confession with us, but he always had an excuse—he had to work. Sometimes, I felt he deliberately scheduled himself on weekends just to avoid both

The only other time I remember when he had to go to confession was after I had decided to convert to Catholicism. To my surprise, the priest quickly made marriage arrangements. After all, I was already more than a few months pregnant. Although a Catholic co-worker told me we were living in sin, it didn’t really matter since we had already been married in the Methodist Church a year earlier. There was no sin on my mind, for I felt that God still loved me. The priest scheduled our ceremony on a Saturday. It was, I think, a day of reckoning for Bud because he had to go to confession before marriage rites. It had been, I’m sure, more than ten years since he had been to confession and I knew he wasn’t looking forward to it. When I was finished with confession, I smiled at him and said it was his turn and to remember to tell all. He was in there longer than I had expected and thought, Wow, he’s really baring his soul! When he emerged from the confessional, I was surprised to see him so calm, not perspiring. Purging has its benefits.

Since then I never could persuade him to go to confession. Whenever I’d ask him to go, he’d say it was too embarrassing. Whenever he joked about going to the big casino in the sky, I’d tell him that his sins were too many for heaven to take him. Again, he was a captive for confession after avoiding it for so many years. It was meant to be. It was time, his time.

Looking at the heart monitor, I saw that a larger portion of his heart was involved. He knew it too, but neither of us said anything. He looked at me apologetically and said, Mummy, you have to cover the lab on weekends. I nodded and replied, Yeh, don’t worry about that now. I’ll take care of it. He knew I disliked weekend call because I had argued against being involved. He relaxed more when I said I would and closed his eyes. I didn’t know exactly how I’d take care of something I had never wanted and resented doing but wasn’t going to worry about it then. It wasn’t time to cross that bridge.

I stayed with him a little longer before joining the children in the waiting room. I was concerned that the youngest had been exceptionally quiet and wanted to be close by to let her know she wasn’t alone, mom was close by. The doctor arrived soon after and suggested I take the children home, assuring me that he’d call me when needed. I agreed because there was no point in all sitting and waiting, especially since it was almost bedtime for the youngest.

On our way out, we met